


Something You Miss

by keelywolfe



Category: Transformers, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/">Transformers Kink Meme</a> for <a href="http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=6906761#t6906761">this request</a>: <i>Ratchet gets drunk after a party (maybe Wheeljack's episode?) and flirts with Optimus. Optimus is confused as to how to deal with Ratchet's advances.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The energon Ratchet made was clear, clean pink. Perfectly enriched with the proper mix of compounds that all Autobots required to maintain their systems and formulated to accept additives as necessary per medical regulations. It tasted light, fresh, and clean, the raw fuel filtered by utilizing the solar energy provided by their new home's sun.

In contrast, the low-grade sludge that Wheeljack had brought was a deep, oily shade of opaque burgundy. It had been fermented in a clunky distillery that was as much patch material as it was an actual machine and was powered off the waste energy left over from the engines of his ship. It was rank with impurities and guaranteed to give any mech who so much as sniffed the cube a morning processor ache. Consuming it was a folly at best and at worst, suicide of the internal components, and Ratchet had banned Bumblebee from even trying one, citing the youth of his systems, and had lectured strongly about the recklessness of overcharging at a time of war, even in the safety of their own base.

Three cubes later, and Ratchet was analyzing their ceiling with fierce intensity, cycling his optics through their different settings to stare at a world shimmering in overcharge.

He hadn't meant to have even one, rolled his optics at Wheeljack and Bulkhead as they stacked cubes in one corner in preparation. Only the children had still been here, playing that noise that was supposed to be music and Ratchet had finally snatched up a teasingly offered cube in a desperate moment of self-defense.

Really. That was all it had been. One cube to dull the echoing chatter of three human children and the howls of their music.

The other two cubes he didn't have an excuse for, though he suspected Arcee's disapproving look had something to do with it. He was the medic around here, thank you very much, he knew what he was doing, and the ceiling really was fascinating when viewed in the ultraviolet spectrum.--

"No…iss like this 'un. I was over here and Springer's 'ere." A deep voice slurred out from behind one of the consoles.

Irritating, really, and rude, to interrupt Ratchet's contemplation of the ceiling of the home the humans had allowed them to cobble together. He snorted, the sound echoing sharply. _Allowed_ them, as though the humans owned this pathetic little planet. The other species that lived here might have something to say about that in a few thousand more years. Ratchet had a decent amount to say about it now, if he ever thought Optimus would let him. Would that he was ever that lucky.

Thinking of Optimus, where was…oh, yes. Arcee and Optimus had prudently decided to take the humans home. Optimus hadn't offered more than a quiet request that they keep the breakage to a minimum when he'd learned of the former Wrecker's plans, but he'd certainly shuffled their human companions out quickly enough. Something about impressionable minds. Impressionable, ha! Thus far, they hadn't even been able to impress upon Miko that Decepticon chasing was a bad idea, never mind her trying to start a photo album.

Although to be fair, if he'd known all he needed was to toss around a little illicit brew, Ratchet would have set up his own distillery weeks ago. Probably would have been able to get a better grade, too, a little more heat would generate a superior yield--

Another loud clang startled Ratchet from his thoughts, followed by, "Don't you think I know where he was standin'? I was there, you lugnut, I know where I was standing!"

Blearily, Ratchet managed to lift his head enough to see Bulkhead and Wheeljack. Or at least parts of them were visible over the console they were sitting behind; a head here, a foot there. One hand waving unsteadily as it gestured to…hm. Gestured to something, anyway, little bits of rock and some bolts that had probably been scavenged from Ratchet's cabinet of spares were arranged in a surprisingly detailed diagram of some battle the two of them had been in. One of Miko's little dolls, apparently representing Bulkhead, seemed to be the point of contention.

He might have joined them in the conversation or at least attempted to shout at them that he needed those bolts so put the blasted things back, if Wheeljack hadn't proven they'd forgotten him entirely by leaning in to Bulkhead, grabbing his head and kissing him with furious, horrific intent.

Oh, dear Primus.

There was a sight he wasn't going to get out of his processors anytime soon. His vocalizer clicked, a dim, desperate sound, in an attempt to squawk out a protest. That was just about the last thing he wanted to be witness to, overcharged or not, and thank the holy Allspark that they two of them managed to shuffle to their feet, still kissing, and staggered away, hopefully getting to Bulkhead's quarters. If Ratchet had to stumble over them in the morning, sprawled out in a corridor in a post-coital bliss, he suspected his logic circuits would fritz entirely.

He took a moment to contemplate the possibility of making his way to his own quarters and dismissed it as ridiculous. Right now, he wasn't entirely certain his legs were even attached, much less able to carry him anywhere and Ratchet wasn't about to try dragging himself through the corridors.

Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure where his quarters were. Better stay here, then, basking in the warm glow of overcharge. It took a while for a niggling little thought to filter through the static blasting his processors, but when it did, it hit Ratchet, hard, with the force of a blow straight to the head.

Bulkhead was getting laid.

Bulkhead, clumsy, rash Bulkhead who admitted himself that his processor speeds weren't going to earn him any awards, was probably off getting fragged into his berth or possibly into a wall, depending on how far they'd gotten, and Ratchet, who had not only had to put together their energon refinery but also the ground bridge, maintain all necessary internal surveillance, and generally just work his aft off, was here, alone, with his ceiling.

Honestly, the unfairness of the universe was staggering.

Not that Ratchet blamed him. Their species was hardly as focused on all-out fragging as the human species seemed to be but that didn't mean a mech didn't like to have a good time now and then, Primus, when was the last time any of them could say they'd gone at it? Tight-knit as they were, comrades in arms that Ratchet would battle to the death for but just for a frag? Not a one of them was with the others.

Arcee would have to be the most recent to berth with another but Ratchet shuffled that line of thought far down the queue, didn't dare even contemplate it as overcharged as he was, not if he didn't want to turn the pleasant wash of overcharge into an hour-long fit of weeping.

Bumblebee was too young to even have gone through his first cycle and Optimus—they all suspected they knew who his last partner was. Small wonder he wasn't eager to try that again.

Perhaps he should, Ratchet mused, perhaps he just hadn't considered it. When your options could be listed on the fingers of one hand, a mech couldn't really afford to be picky.

The deep thrum of an engine broke through his growingly maudlin thoughts, along with a brief, murmured conversation. Voices, ones that Ratchet recognized but sullenly ignored. Not that it mattered who they were, did it. None of them were going to frag him and not a few hours ago Ratchet would have been fine with that. Here, now, with Bulkhead getting laid, suddenly Ratchet had the urge to frag someone, anyone, who was close enough for him to grab and still had a spark beat. He did have some standards, after all.

There was always the option of self-service and Ratchet was giving it honest consideration, his muddled senses heating with more than a little dubious energon. His peripheral sensors were slagged at the moment, not that he needed them to feel a large mech stepping closer to him, large, warm hands resting lightly on the thin armor that covered Ratchet's arms.

"Come on, old friend," Soft, deep voice, so close to his audial that Ratchet shivered, as their leader tried to help him to his feet.

Perfect.

Oh, Optimus would be perfect. Not that he hadn't contemplated it before. Old he might be, cranky, certainly, but Ratchet wasn't listed as dead on his service record just yet. And if the sight of Wheeljack and Bulkhead groping each other had threatened to burn through his optical cabling, then looking at Optimus was a treat to the senses, always had been.

Attractive? Frag, yes. Optimus was optic-catching in all the best ways and Ratchet was already trying to spread his legs and show Optimus exactly what was on his mind. Only, Optimus had hooked an arm under Ratchet's and hauled him to his feet before he could convince his legs to move. It was an impressive feat considering how much Ratchet weighed.

Mm, strong, yes. Their Prime was strong and Ratchet snuggled into those nice, strong arms, only realizing that Optimus had frozen when he started idly stroking a hand down those strong hydraulics, probing nimbly for sensitive cabling despite the overcharge still burning hotly through him, sparking through circuits.

He sighed audibly, burying his face against the glass plates that made up Optimus's windshield, his olfactory sensors picking up the scent of oil and asphalt clinging to him. From driving on the human roads, surely, and never before had it seemed so arousing.

His vocalizer chose that moment to online again, allowing him to murmur, "You smell so _good_."

A surprisingly weak, "Thank you?" was the only reply and Ratchet found himself making a sound that could only be called a giggle. Later, he'd be horrified by that, but for now, he only nuzzled against the glass, considered tasting it to see if the flavor was as improved by a little intoxication as the scent.

"So polite," Ratchet teased, tightening his grip as Optimus tried to take a step back. That was just the very opposite of what Ratchet wanted and not only because he suspected he'd fall on his aft if he lost his sole means of support. The more he considered it, the better this idea seemed. Optimus was alone, he was alone, they were so alone, so few of them, and Optimus wasn't _quite_ pushing him away. Only that painful grip on Ratchet's shoulders, hard enough that his sensors were sending him warning pings.

"So good," he repeated, let just the tip of his glossa brush the smooth glass. Not quite as good as the smell, he decided, but close. Optimus made a startled sound, Primus, he had sensitive sensors.

"Never thought about it, have you?" Ratchet murmured, loosened his hold enough to let his hands drift. Sleek, cool feel of Optimus's plating made an incongruous mix of soothing and arousal war in his internals. "Not about me. I can't say the same, you know."

"I think…perhaps you need some rest," Optimus choked out. That was not quite what Ratchet was hoping to hear and he looked up with a frown, met Optimus's gaze with his own. Optimus's optics were astonishingly wide, almost childlike, his shock visible. Well, that wasn't disgust, though, and he hadn't said no…

"Some rest, yes," Ratchet whispered, let a hint of roughness into his vocalizer, "Let's get some _rest_ , Optimus." Ratchet slipped a finger into a crevice between armor plates, let his finger slide over the sensor circuitry beneath it. Overcharged, maybe, not so much that he didn't know just the right amount of pressure to make Optimus stiffen, a faint jolt shaking his frame. Mm, interesting. Just as Ratchet was settling his hand over Optimus spike cover, testing it for heat, Optimus exploded into motion.

Grabbed Ratchet under the arms and pulled, hauling him through the base so quickly that Ratchet was forced to stumble after him, confusion as much as the intoxicants tangling his thoughts.

His door had already been opened, his berth beneath him, by the time Ratchet's whirling processors caught up. He blinked up at Optimus, and now the sensation churning through him was losing its warm glow, replaced with confusion and hurt. The arousal was still fresh, still hot beneath his interfacing panel and pinging him with readiness. Just as he started reaching up, thinking to pull Optimus down on him, their leader stepped quickly back, out of his reach.

"Rest well, old friend," So softly, and the lights dimmed, leaving Ratchet alone in the darkness.

No.

Frustrated anger filled him, chased by overwhelming grief, for the things he'd lost, the things he was never going to have. Not even this, not this one thing that he'd never even suspected he wanted until now.

"You always call me that," Ratchet sniped into the nothingness. "It's meaningless at this point, isn't it?"

Heard the door shut and Ratchet covered his face with his hands, struggling to hold back the ridiculous urge to howl with his grief and loss. He had nothing and he was ruining one of the closest friendships he'd ever had, but he would not lose the last of his fragging dignity. Not yet.

"What do you mean?" Softly, very close to him. Ratchet snatched his hands away from his face, brightened his optics enough to allow him to see clearly through the dark room. Optimus had only closed the door, was still next to the berth, kneeling just far enough that Ratchet knew he couldn't touch.

"I mean, it's meaningless," Ratchet said, dully. The pleasant taint of overcharge was seeping into the expected, unpleasant aftereffects. "We're so few. You can't really afford to be picky about your friends anymore, now can you?"

"Perhaps not," Optimus rejoined, softly. "However, I called you friend long before that."

"I don’t care!" Ratchet snarled. "Right now Bulkhead of all mechs is getting his pedes fragged off and I want the same so badly that I might be looking for Bumblebee if I could actually walk."

"You want—"

"I want you to frag me! I want you to shove your spike in me so hard I feel it for days. I want you to hold me down and take me." Frag yes, he wanted that. He wanted to spread his legs and yank Optimus between them, wanted to feel lubricant slicking his thighs. Primus, he wanted.

"And that's all you want?"

"All I want?" Ratchet couldn't hold back the laughter, "No one could give me all I want, unless they invent a way to reorder time." He slanted Optimus a glance, let his optics trail down the long body of their leader, taking in the broad chest, the slimmer hips and legs. "But I'd take whatever you give me."

Their leader, their Prime, who shifted uncomfortably under the regard. "You're very overcharged."

"Tell me something I don't know," Ratchet sighed out and now he very much wished Optimus would leave before he ruined what was left of their friendship. Wished he'd go so that Ratchet could at the very least touch himself, slide his fingers into valve until he could force a lackluster overload. Anything to get rid of the charge pooling in his pelvic region.

Ratchet vented a harsh sigh. "Go find your own berth, Optimus. I'd like to get plenty of rest so I can properly regret this in the morning."

He shuttered his optics, not wanting to see Optimus leaving him alone. Waiting for the quiet swish of the door and tried not to let the _need_ that was inexorably rising in him push past his fogged common sense again.

The gentle touch of large hands on his knee joints was the last thing he expected to feel and Ratchet flinched before he could help himself. Instead of pulling away, they slowly stroking upward, teased over sensors as large thumbs slid over his inner thighs. Spreading his legs, spreading him open.

Ratchet kept his optics shuttered, cycled up his cooling fans until he was venting out harsh pants of steamy air. This, Primus, yes, this, and if it was some lusty, overcharge-induced dream cycle then he wanted to stay within it to its completion.

Such a gentle touch, not at all what he'd been craving, lent doubt to the idea that this was anything but reality. Perhaps his processors knew better what he wanted than even he did, though, because Ratchet was already stuttering out quiet little moans, pushing his hips up into a startlingly expert touch, stroking over his most responsive sensors.

Those teasing hands caught his hips suddenly and pulled, yanking him to the edge of the berth before he could protest. Heavy weight settled on top of him, pressing his legs wider yet. Hands on his knees, pushing them up.

"Oh, yes," Ratchet groaned. He snapped open the cover of his valve, felt the liquid heat of lubricant already trickling from it. Already eager for a hard spike to fill it, stretching him as he hadn't been since before they'd left Cybertron. Far, far too long.

Instead, the slick, agile flick of a glossa pressed against him and finally, Ratchet onlined his optics, staring down in disbelief.

If the sight of Wheeljack and Bulkhead had threatened to permanently disable his interfacing circuitry, then the sight of Optimus's helm buried between his spread legs, optics shuttered and his expression blissful, threatened to send his heated circuits into the redline.

Ratchet couldn't look away from it, disabled his optic-shuttering reflex even as the sensation drove him to whimper, pleading wordlessly for more. Good, incredibly good, the slippery little flickers against the sensor nodes lining the opening of his valve before Optimus delved deeper inside, lapping against him. Lubricants were gleaming on his mouth, slicking his chin and Ratchet's control slipped as Optimus pushed his glossa deeply inside along with a single finger, the unexpected stretch drawing a startled cry.

"Optimus," he begged, "Now, please, now, frag me, I want to feel it, want to feel you…" A babbling stream of pleading, his hands scrabbling along Optimus's shoulders, trying to grip the smooth armor and pull Optimus up to him. A plea and a prayer, one of the few that Ratchet had ever had answer as Optimus followed the pull of his hands, covering Ratchet with his large body. The sudden weight made Ratchet huff out a vent of air, even as he lifted his legs, twining them behind Optimus's slimmer ones and holding him there.

"Ratchet," So softly, against his audio receiver and Ratchet looked up, met Optimus's gaze and held it. A long moment, a klik of time and then the hot pressure of a spike against him, filling him. Almost too much for his long-unused valve, the pressure made him narrow his optics but Ratchet never looked away from Optimus's searching gaze. Even when he groaned, arching up to take in the last of it, felt Optimus's pelvis rock against his own as they settled.

Until Optimus groaned, dipping his head and pressed their mouths together. Shared the sweet, slick taste of Ratchet's lubricants as he began to move, one slow thrust, another, the quiet thump of their bodies moving stunningly loud in the small room. Ratchet didn't care, not even enough to be glad that none of the others were housed near him. Not with Optimus moving harder into him, his hands moving down to Ratchet's hips and tilting them even further, letting him push in that much deeper.

His own moans were muffled into Optimus's eager mouth, glossas tangling together as Ratchet tried to struggle, tried to lift even more into it and discovered he couldn't move at all. He was pinned completely beneath Optimus, beneath the blunt, hot pressure of the spike taking him, charging him, the electricity sparkling over their frames. Trapped right where he wanted to be, under the weight of his closest friend while he moved over him, into him, each thrust drawing a gaspy little cry now, Ratchet was so close, overcharge drawing him in quicker, ramping up the charge.

He tried to brace against it, hands scrambling ineffectively over Optimus until they were caught, captured, Optimus's hands strong on his wrists as he pinned Ratchet's hands back to the berth. Above him, Optimus's optics were blazing, the hot wash of his ventilations as titillating as a touch, and with a last, desperate moan, Ratchet tumbled into overload, shook as sensation whiplashed through him, Optimus's cry an echo of his own as they both went rigid, shaking so hard that their armor clattered against the berth, another layer of sensation almost unbearable against sensors too overcharged to accept it.

Ratchet cycled on his optics as soon as he could and found himself sprawled on his own berth, legs still spread obscenely and he might have been appalled by that if a hand hadn't been between them. Long fingers stroking lazily over overwrought circuitry, drawing out the leftover charge until he could relax, drawing his legs together with barely a wince.

"Are you all right?" Optimus asked softly.

"In all my years, I've never heard of anyone being fragged to death yet, so yes, I'm all right," Ratchet said dryly. Most of his overcharge had been burned away in the intensity of their coupling and that left him…here. Uncomfortably close to normal with his Prime's, his closest friend's, transfluid trickling down his inner thighs and pooling beneath him.

"That isn't what I mean." Trust Optimus to make this serious while the both of them still had steam rising off their frames.

"I'm all right," Ratchet sighed. As all right as he ever was. "I wanted this," he added, insisted, because Optimus was just the type to feel guilty about it until time ended.

A wry smile curved Optimus's mouth, "You were…are…very overcharged," he said, gently. But his hands didn't stop, still moving gently over Ratchet's cooling frame.

"Maybe," Ratchet said, grumpily, shifting as he tried, and failed, to find a drier place to lie in. He finally gave up and resigned himself to a thorough cleaning in the morning, sternly not allowing himself to think of consequences. Not now, not yet, and Optimus instantly wrapped his arms around Ratchet as he awkwardly burrowed in. Another thing he'd wait to be embarrassed about later.

"I might be a little overcharged, but I still know what I want," Ratchet murmured sleepily, relaxing against the comfortable, comforting warmth of Optimus's frame.

Barely, he heard a soft, "As do I." There was no time to consider it before he slipped into recharge, basking, for just a little while, in the embrace of another. Of one of his own kind.

-finis


	2. Slow Motion Envy

There was very little that was as unpleasant as surfacing from recharge after a night of overcharging. All medics had theoretical knowledge of it, as well as how to treat it. Or not treat it, depending on the mood of the medic and just how much the mech in question deserved to suffer from their condition. Ratchet had a few indiscriminant memories from his youth archived away that confirmed his knowledge of the aftermath of overcharge.

He'd never expected to have them reconfirmed at his age and certainly not on this planet. 

Still, he did still possess the knowledge of how to treat a nasty overcharge morning-after and if he didn't have to move, he'd have been happy to implement them. The way he felt, if he did move, Ratchet suspected his head would roll off and shatter on the floor and since he  _needed_  his head, he decided to wait until the agony churning through it lessoned somewhat. The berth beneath him felt unpleasantly hard, as though someone had switched out the normal firm padding with carbon steel. Moving was still out of the question so Ratchet was forced to lie there, processors whirling, as he tried to remember what the frag had happened. 

A cube, he'd had a cube of Wheeljack's low-grade, against his own better judgment and now he was suffering from it. No, he'd had two, no,  _three_ , and why in the name of Primus was he so fragging  _hot_? Were the temperature settings in his room faulty? Perhaps if he wasn't so overheated he could actually think and Ratchet started to move, to the Pit with his fragging head...only the protesting murmur from the very warm body behind him stilled him. 

Oh, scrap. 

Just what had he done last night? His memory of it was badly fragmented, only glimpses and images, but from the warm, heavy weight behind him, venting hot air on the back of his neck, Ratchet thought he might be able to piece it together without resorting any special defragmenting. 

Oh, Primus, what had he done? Carefully, he went through the files, mapping what he could of them. The last clear memory he had involved the floor, no, the ceiling? He'd been lying on the floor looking at the ceiling, and then Wheeljack and Bulkhead…

Ah. Well, then.

Briskly, Ratchet shuffled aside the sections of memory and considered going back into recharge. Not that it was going to change whatever had happened but if he was in a berth with one, or Primus forbid, both of them, he'd like to get a little more energy to properly run away screaming.

For now, the struts in his back were aching from recharging in such an awkward position. Ratchet tried to shift, just a little, and an arm he hadn't realized was slung around him tightened almost to the point of denting, stilling him before it relaxed.

Oh, for pity's sake. It was bad enough to be here while he was hyped up on bad energon and recharging. Getting trapped while he was wide awake was an entirely different chapter in the abysmal data file that was his life.

He didn't really think about glancing down, only absently noticed the black hand that was spread wide over his abdominal plating, all the better to touch as much as it could, the red armor on its forearm and…

His processors stuttered, data streams choking as memory collided with reality with shattering force.

Red armor. There was exactly one mech on their sad little excuse for a home base that had red armor and much as he wanted to cling to the pathetic little hope that Bulkhead had persuaded Wheeljack into a repaint sometime during the night, it was wildly improbable.

Ratchet had to stifle his vocalizer from groaning aloud. What exactly had he  _done_? Oh, he could certainly deduce what had  _been_  done. With the stickiness on the plating of his inner thighs and the telling ache in his valve, it was easy to conclude that  _he_  had been done and vigorously at that. 

What was harder to configure his processor around was the idea that Optimus had been the one to do it. Was it even possible for this to get worse? He supposed finding Megatron on the other side of the berth would be the only way to seal that. Considering that his processors would also suffer a permanent meltdown if that were true did mean he wouldn't have to deal with it.

Buried deep inside there was also the tiny urge to sulk over the unfairness that he had gotten a frag with Optimus Prime of all mechs and he didn't even have a naughty memory file of it to savor. All he had were flashes, fragments, and if it weren't for the warm twinge in his valve, Ratchet would believe that Optimus had only fallen into recharge with him. Improbable as that was. 

Though perhaps...perhaps it wasn't what he thought? As disjointed as his memory files were of last night, there was a chance that he'd done, well, whatever he'd done before Optimus had brought him back to his rooms.

Ratchet had to stifle a snort, dismissing that nonsense speculation. He was lying in his own berth with a mech, his own lubricant drying on his plating, and he was trying to sort it out so that someone else had caused it? If it looked like a bolt, you didn't start rummaging around for a screwdriver. 

Only that meant he was still here, still blurry with overcharge and still in Optimus's arms. Possibly after seducing him and that was a concept he was not about to deal with just now, mostly because his overwrought logic circuits were threatening to glitch just from considering it. 

Oh, Ratchet, you irresistible charmer, you, he thought, darkly. More likely, he'd cadged a mercy frag from one of his closest friends and now he was going to have to deal with the fallout. 

Though it might be better to deal with it when his pedes were firmly on the ground. Tentatively, Ratchet tried to edge away from the arm holding him, wincing as his struts sent wild protests straight to his neural net. Only to have Optimus tighten his grip again, murmuring a wordless huff as he buried his face firmly into the side of Ratchet's neck. 

He tried again, felt the edge of panic rising over his already raw sensors when Optimus again refused to let him go. He even shifted his grip and the feel of his large hands drifting lower made Ratchet freeze. If he wasn't so close to panicking he'd have to laugh at the ridiculous picture they had to be making. Optimus clinging to him as though he were an enormous teddy bear while Ratchet flailed like an insecticon in a net. He did take a second to be grateful he'd never installed those security cameras into their private rooms. Of course, just the knowledge of what Wheeljack and Bulkhead had probably been doing made him grateful for that. 

Having a warm, strong body pressed against his own was having another effect on him as well, one that he didn't particular want advertised when Optimus finally came out of recharge. Optimus was close enough that the heat of his exvents was washing over Ratchet in heavy, rhythmic gusts that his neural net, already primed from the night before, was interpreting as an invitation for another round.

Wrestling what little control he could from his weary systems, Ratchet forcibly kept his cooling fans from kicking on. That would certainly pull Optimus from recharge, possibly with battle protocols blazing. Not something Ratchet considered himself capable of dodging right at this moment. Frankly, he was surprised Optimus hadn't booted up already, considering how light he kept his normal recharge protocols. 

Ratchet was already making an absent note to check Optimus over for any issues when the larger mech moved again, the rough sound of their armor scraping loud in the still room as his hands moved over Ratchet's chest plating. To his shock, they moved with  _intent_ , seeking out delicate sensors, his fingers deft for their size as they rubbed over sensory nodes in such a way that made Ratchet stifle a cry, his vents hissing sharply. 

Oh, this was just intolerable! Any moment now, Optimus would boot up from what he surely thought was a particularly racy dream cycle and then he would  _stop_  and all of Ratchet's rising temperatures and hopes would be tangled instead into what would probably be one of the most awkward mornings of his entire life. 

Knowing that was the likely target made it difficult for his overwrought logic processors to determine a course of action. If he woke Optimus, and he sincerely doubted he'd run into an issues with battle protocols  _now_ , it would only rush them headlong into the discomfort of their morning after. If he waited, let Optimus touch him in what was surely a steamy, recharge-induced bit of petting, when Optimus finally did wake their awkwardness would not be reduced but Ratchet's discomfort surely would and he would have to  _be_  here for it, his interface protocols stimulated with no hope for release and--

Optimus's hand finally, _finally_ , slid lower, tearing Ratchet from his thoughts before he could even choose an option. Stealing his ability to even consider making a choice, running down over Ratchet's spike cover, provocative little hints of pressure before skimming lower, trailing past his closed valve cover to his inner thighs, sliding through the tacky remnants of last night's lubricant. Tense as he was, it still didn't stop Optimus from finding the seam of one tightly drawn piece of armor, stroking the line of it as he tried to coax it open. Ratchet didn't remember feeling it the night before, those fragmented memory files less than useless with his cooling fans stuttering online despite his resistance, and he had to forcibly prevent the panel from opening to let him feel it now. Scrap, but he wanted to feel it, those surprisingly tender touches over the tightly bundled cabling beneath his armor panels, stroking over sensors that hadn't known any touch but his own clinical ones for maintenance in years. 

Only it would seem that Optimus was undeterred. Instead his hand drifted back up, one large finger tracing up between his legs, slicking through the trickles of lubricant already leaking through his closed valve cover.

Opening it wasn't a choice so much as an act of desperation, spreading his legs at the coaxing pressure of Optimus's hand. The touch of those large fingers against his valve made him wince, sore from the night before but not so much that he didn't vent a sharp puff of hot air. Oh, he had to stop this, he couldn't, slag, he needed--

Ratchet started at the sudden sound of a voice against his audio receptor, still static-laden from recharge. "You're wet." 

Ordinarily, he might have favored that sort of response with a pointed observation that Optimus had been fondling him for the past few minutes and since valves tended to react to stimulus, his being no exception, of course he was fragging wet!

Except there were large fingers moving through the slipperiness between his thighs, stroking over the external nodes and Optimus didn't seem to be stating fact so much as expressing delight over a discovery. 

That those would be the first words Optimus spoke to him this morning was unexpectedly titillating. That Optimus would even _say_  them was wickedly arousing, his deep, glorious voice whispering such a tiny obscenity. It was enough to make a mech wish he'd say something else.

It took a moment for another realization to make its way through his processors, the fog of arousal and lingering overcharge delaying any rational thinking. Optimus was still touching him, sliding one finger into the slickness of his valve, making Ratchet's hips lurch eagerly into the touch that scraped so perfectly over the inner nodes, exquisite pressure that sent shimmers of pleasure to jack straight into his neural net. 

"Oh, yes, Primus, yes," Ratchet groaned, his own hand scrabbling to grip Optimus's wrist, almost trying to force his finger deeper. Instead, a second slid in alongside the first, dragging out a louder groan at the strut-melting pleasure of it. "Yes," Ratchet moaned again, "Scrap, yes, right there, there, that's perfect. Optimus—"

It was the name that made the connection in his processors click, nearly a whimper from his own vocalizer, the name of his Prime who was touching him, venting hotly against Ratchet's audials and very, very much awake. 

Oh, by the Allspark, Optimus was awake and still touching him. Holding Ratchet tightly against the hard length of his body while Ratchet squirmed, riding his fingers as overload charge rose in his circuits. Dimly, Ratchet could feel the vibrations of his engine, the loud hum of Optimus's own cooling fans. There was no room left in his processors to care much about it, overwhelmed with sensation that was sparking hard through his sensors. 

He nearly snarled his frustration when Optimus pulled his fingers free, sending a rush of eager lubricant over his thighs. Oh, he was close, he was so close, and he could not let Optimus stop now. Obscenities were already tumbling free from his vocalizer, a garbled mix of pleading and protest that disintegrated into a sharp burst of static when Optimus grabbed his leg roughly, hauling in back and over Optimus's hip. Not quite uncomfortable, it shifted the tilt of Ratchet's hips backward, leaving his needy valve open.

Honestly, he was entirely too old to be getting creative but there was no protesting, not now. Not when the tip of Optimus's spike was resting at the entrance to his valve, hesitating there until finally Ratchet pushed back impatiently, caught just the flared head against his sensor-rich rim and the pressure made him choke, squirming desperately in an effort to get Optimus to move, already!

"Are you ready?" Optimus murmured, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating through Ratchet like a sensation of its own.

"Yes!" Ratchet spat, squirming against the unyielding grip of Optimus's arms keeping him still, "Yes, I'm ready, would you just frag me? I need—ahhh!"

His cry was loud enough to ring through the room, Optimus taking him at his word and ready as he was, the sudden invasion of a large spike into his valve had his sensor nodes shrieking, sending mixed pain/pleasure signals jolting through him. Optimus only paused a moment, the stretch of his valve only just beginning to ease, then he pulled back, slowly, drawing his spike out until only the tip remained inside. 

He hesitated there, Ratchet all but howling his protests, begging, trying to push back against the iron grip on his hips, before Optimus again thrust forward, a slow, deep invasion that dragged across every slagging sensor node Ratchet possessed.

Again, each slow withdrawal followed by a deep thrust that stretched his valve to its very limits, until Ratchet was sobbing, pleading, a frantic, mangled plea for Optimus to fragging finish it already, to do it harder, harder, you slagging bastard, just do it…

Barely, he felt Optimus's grip on him tighten, his only hint of warning, and then Ratchet's vocalizer cracked on a scream, the first hard thrust almost sliding him across the berth. Only Optimus's hold on him kept him still, sensations hammering into him as hard as Optimus's spike, each brutal thrust drawing overload tantalizingly closer, just within reach when Optimus abruptly withdrew. 

"You fragging, pit-spawned, glitch—" Ratchet screamed, his vocalizer squealing feedback even as Optimus moved him, used his much greater strength to physically lift Ratchet. When his gyroscopes finally caught up, Ratchet found he was sprawled over Optimus, straddling him, and before he could do more than brace his hands against Optimus's abdominal plating, Optimus was already shifting him, arching up and pushing his spike back into Ratchet's aching, slippery valve.

"Ah! Dee-eep, that's…deep," Ratchet let out a static-laced moan. 

"Yes," Optimus groaned, his grip tight on Ratchet's hips as he jerked his hips up, seating his spike deeply inside for one perfect instant before he withdrew and did it again. Again, the hot, hard slide jolting into Ratchet hard enough that their hips clanged with a mellow reverberation.

Ratchet instantly forgave Optimus for the change in position, so much deeper, hitting the nodes at the back of his valve with each hard thrust. Better, so much better, and yet, worse. Before, Ratchet had been able to lie there, let Optimus take him, and now...now, Optimus was right here, beneath him, his optics blazing with unfamiliar heat. Ratchet could watch the rippling movement of his armor as he thrust up, each deep, hard movement flickered brightly through the hot shine of his optics. 

Unnerved, Ratchet shuttered his own optics, focused instead on rocking his hips to meet each hard thrust, tightening his thighs around Optimus's slimmer hips as he rode each movement. 

The sensory feedback was exquisite, charge building, and Ratchet clung to Optimus, grinding down, hips jerking even as Optimus's hands tightened, denting his armor, and yes, perfect, too much, and _right there_ , and Ratchet overloaded with a strangled cry, jerking with the charge thrumming through him and the slick, hot rush of transfluid flooding him as Optimus arched beneath him hard enough to lift them both from the berth, his groan vibrating through Ratchet enough to send a weak aftershock through him. 

Venting hard, Ratchet managed to squirm away from Optimus's weakening grip, collapsing on the other side of the berth with a heavy clang. Hands were already touching him before he'd gotten far, drawing a weak murmur of protest that was ignored as Optimus pulled him back into his arms, burying his face into the indentation at the base of Ratchet's throat, his ventilations hot and teasing. Gamely, Ratchet's interface protocols tried to surge online again and he shut them down ruthlessly. The only thing he was spreading his legs for again this morning was to shut down the aching sensors in his hips and to hose himself down. Later. 

Falling into recharge into Optimus's arms was likely what had gotten them into this mess in the first place but Ratchet couldn't summon up an ounce of energy to protest, much less move. With a half-hearted grumbled, he settled into Optimus's arms, resting his head over the too-hot armor of his chest to sleepily listen for the warm, safe hum of his Prime's spark.

tbc


	3. Of No Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the episode, Convoy (minor spoilers).

  
"Hold still," Ratchet said, calmly. He didn't look up; his optics were set to magnify the damage in front of him and changing his perspective was disorienting. Optimus didn't protest, not even that he _had_ been holding still. He'd been trying anyway, but the sensors that Ratchet was very carefully adjusting were quite sensitive. 

He deliberately gentled his touch and didn't bother asking Optimus if he'd like his pain sensors turned off. Inevitably, the answer would be no and Ratchet only overrode such protests when the damage was critical. 

Having grit and other particles ground into his pedes wasn't critical, per se, only uncomfortable, a small price to pay for stopping a train with nothing but his hands and strength. Ratchet was counting them both lucky that it was only minor damage, easily repaired with a little judicious treatment. If the little human's nuclear device had gone off, well, he would possibly be burying his team rather than repairing minor damage. Being trapped here on his planet alone was a fate that Ratchet did not care to consider. 

They were alone in the small alcove that Ratchet generally used as a sort of tiny medical bay, offering what little privacy he could for issues that couldn't be tended to within quarters. The space their base offered was limited, enough that Ratchet could reach anything he needed without even standing from the supplies that were stacked neatly against one wall. There was no berth in this room, forcing Optimus to sit on the floor while Ratchet kneeled at his feet, working with quick, precise movements.

Once, he'd worked in some of the finest facilities on Cybertron. Memories of having an abundance of both the tools and the parts he needed was little more than a wistful dream at this point and one that Ratchet found easy to set aside. His tools might be limited but his skills were not, and all his team was  _alive_. He'd thank Primus for that and not trouble him with the foolish wishes of an old mech.

Instead, he concentrated on the stripped gears in Optimus's tarsal apparatus. He adjusted the work light for a better view before prodding at the overstressed tibial tension cable. Replacing it would be better, except that their parts were so limited and Optimus was hardly a standard size. Grumbling to himself, Ratchet chose the second best option and decided that with a little strictly enforced rest, it would heal on its own. And he fully intended to make sure that rest was strictly enforced, by any means necessary. 

With a mental wince, Ratchet shied away from that line of thought. First, finish the repair and then deal with the aftermath. He could feel Optimus watching him and once, Ratchet would have been unbothered by that. It was something he was quite accustomed to; many mechs liked to watch medics work, particularly when the internals were their own. Now it felt…different. He didn't care to speculate just what Optimus saw when he looked at him. 

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Ratchet had woken alone in his room, his head aching less and his valve aching more. Two weeks of whatever this blasted thing was between them. Another question Ratchet hadn't speculated on. He was going to have to make a separate data packet just to keep track of all the things he didn't want to think about. 

~~*~~

 _Two Weeks Ago_

If waking up with another mech and no memory of how they'd gotten there was disturbing, then waking up alone after one of the better frags of his life was equally so. Ratchet surfaced from recharge with the ache of overcharge still lingering in his processors and a warning from his fuel tanks that the fumes lingering in it weren't going to cut it for much longer, so he needed to get his aft up. 

Groaning, Ratchet pushed himself up gingerly, cycling his optics once, twice, before grudgingly deciding that the blur was a lingering side effect and not a calibration issue. His memories were still patchy, less so with time spent defragging while he recharged. There was one memory, perfectly clear, that made his engine rev and a flush of heat sent his internal thermometer into the yellow, kicking his sluggish cooling fans to a higher level. 

Of Optimus, waking next to him, and the two of them…well, at least he  _had_  a memory of it this time. The berth next to him was cool to the touch, an indication that Optimus had left some time ago, while Ratchet was still insensate with equal parts overcharge and overload. 

And of course he had,  _of course_  Optimus would have left, Ratchet told himself. The others would be rousing and they hardly wanted to explain to them why Optimus was leaving Ratchet's quarters so early. Doubtlessly, he'd have to have a talk with Optimus about it later, (and there was something to look forward to), and then they could put this event behind them. Go back to being friends and comrades; that would be for the best. 

With the same iron determination that had carried him through a war that had destroyed most of his species, along with his home planet, Ratchet locked the memory back, refusing to allow anything past the basic recall as he rose from the berth. He couldn't help groaning at the protest in his struts, a visceral reminder of what had happened the night before whether he replayed the memory or not. 

Optimus was certainly quite a mech in the berth…no, no, no, Ratchet cut off that sequence briskly. Time for energon and to face the day. Consequences would have to wait just a bit. He took the time to swab away any clinging detritus on his armor, just enough to be presentable and to not advertise just what he'd been doing that night before shuffling out the door. A little energon in his fuel tanks would clear his head.

If he believed in it, Ratchet would call it a grim sort of luck that the others would blame his stiffness on over-energizing and his surliness as normal. The others were already in the main room when he tried, and predictably failed, to not stagger in. Arcee was sitting with Optimus, both consuming their morning energon. He managed a grunt for them, ignoring the knowing smirk Arcee graced him with and avoiding Optimus's optics completely. Not now, no, certainly not now. Energon, first, then consequences. Wheeljack and Bulkhead looked a great deal better than Ratchet felt and he spared a little of his aching processor power to hate them.

Snagging a cube of his own, Ratchet chose to lean against a wall instead of sitting, not trusting his achingly sore struts and hydraulics to lift him back up again. Getting stuck sitting on the floor or worse, having to ask for help getting up was far, far down on his list of things he ever wanted to happen, right around the same level as asking Starscream for a wax and polish. 

He took a sip of the clear, sweet energon, just the taste enough to let him relax back against the wall and, unthinkingly, he glanced up and caught optics with Optimus.

For just a klik, Ratchet couldn't force himself to look away again, his optics drifting down to the smooth line of Optimus's mouth. A flash of memory cut through his processors, of the things that mouth could, and had, done. It made his interfacing protocols perk up, eager to online, made his cooling fans give a quickly aborted whir. 

It was Wheeljack that broke through his rapidly heating thoughts and Ratchet could appreciate the interruption, if not the sentiment behind them. 

"Feeling all right, doc?" Wheeljack asked, good-naturedly. "That rotgut goes down a little rough, 'specially on a frame model like yours."

Ratchet snorted loudly, "Please. I've had low-grade energon that would strip the internals off a youngling like you. Your piddling fusel oil was barely enough to grease my processors."

Wheeljack was chuckling gleefully before Ratchet had even finished, gave Bulkhead a hard slap on the back that rang loud enough to make Ratchet suppress a wince. "You got a good group of mechs here, buddy. The doc would have been right at home back with the Wreckers."

"Something to aspire to," Ratchet murmured drolly, setting off another round of processor splitting chuckles and playful smacks. 

"Yeah, the doc's all right," Bulkhead agreed, affectionately, "But don't try going to him with sand in your articulators. If you think that energon of yours could blister paint, you should hear the doc swear, I'm telling you—"

Ratchet tuned out the easy chatter between the two, slowly nursing his cube of energon. Relief was far from instantaneous though after a few sips his low energy warnings abated. He'd probably need an extra cube this morning and that fact sent a sharp pang of guilt through him. He of all mechs knew that their energon supplies were low and while he could excuse Bulkhead and Wheeljack for their celebrations, he had no such justification. 

Far from relieving his aching processors, coming out of the fog of overcharge was giving him a chance to brood instead. With a sigh that was only just barely kept internal, Ratchet set aside his weariness and started planning out his day. 

The ground bridge was still in need of repair, like so much else in their base; the scraplet damage taking far too long to repair with Ratchet the only one capable. They were vulnerable, as demonstrated by the debacle of Wheeljack's arrival, and here he was, acting like a youngling barely into his adult frame. Guilt thickened, setting up firm residence in his spark, and Ratchet forced himself to take another sip of energon. Add in the fact that there was a fair chance after his work for the day he was going to owe a very close, very dear friend a number of apologies and he'd rather have a clear head for it. 

Again, his optics lifted unwittingly and met Optimus's. Optimus gave him a little smile that did nothing to alleviate the guilt churning in his tanks. He did have a chance to blink in surprise when Optimus set aside his own cube and stood, walking over to Ratchet and well into his personal EM field. Instinctively, Ratchet started to take a step back, blocked by the very wall he'd chosen to lean against. With wide optics, he watched as Optimus slid a finger under Ratchet's chin, tipping his head up, nearly straining the tension wires in his neck as they again met optics. That little smile lingered bafflingly on Optimus's lips, warmer than he would have expected, what in the name of the Allspark was he--

"Good morning," Optimus murmured softly, the curve of his lips rising into almost a smirk, had Ratchet ever believe Optimus  _could_  smirk, much less would. 

"Wha—" he started to ask, cut off when Optimus kissed him. 

No small peck on the lips, either. His Prime swooped in, quashing any protests that might have been forthcoming with a forceful press of his mouth. His mouth was cool and wet, sweet with the taste of fresh energon and Ratchet was opening to it dumbly, already half-lost in the feel of it. The stone wall behind him was hard against his shoulders, no escape there, not that Ratchet was considering it. Not one fraction of his processors was looking for an out, every sensor he had yielding beneath the warm, tender pressure of Optimus's mouth. 

Dimly, Ratchet heard a clatter, wetness splattering over his pedes. His olfactory sensors detected energon and logic dictated that someone had dropped their cube. From the size of the puddle Ratchet was now standing in, he suspected it had been Bulkhead. Not that he blamed him; he could feel the tremor in the energy field of his own cube, close to collapsing from the pressure of his shocked grip.

Faintest flicker of a slick glossa over his lips and then Optimus pulled back. Abortively, Ratchet started to reach for him, only catching himself when he noticed the others staring, their mouths open and optics glaring near-white in shock. Optimus kept one hand on Ratchet's shoulder and the medic leaned into it automatically, accepting the support with numb relief. 

"Perhaps it's best if we inform you now. Ratchet and I have decided to begin a relationship," Optimus stated, matter-of-factly. No, not quite matter-of-fact; Optimus was always dignified and composed but if he had ever attempted to glow with happiness, Ratchet suspected he'd look just as he did now.

He doubted that any of them could look more shocked if Optimus had suddenly announced their intention to go on that Dancing with the Stars show that Bulkhead was so fond of. 

Ratchet gave them a baleful glare and tried to pretend that Optimus's announcement wasn't a surprise to him. And why not? Back on Cybertron, he'd been quite a catch, a doctor and all that. Perhaps not the expected mate for a  _Prime_ , but it wasn't as though there were many left who were. 

At once, they all seemed to realize that Optimus was still standing there, waiting for a response. It was Arcee who managed first, her vocalizer clicking at the point of resetting as she said, weakly, "Congratulations?"

"Yeah, 'grats, you two," Bulkhead said, almost too enthusiastically after nearly five kliks of utter silence. "That's great, that's…that's slagging terrific! You two…together…and yeah…uh…time to get Miko off to school. You two…you…C'mon, Jackie, you can at least check out the world a little before you take off."

"Sounds like a plan," Wheeljack said agreeably, trailing after Bulkhead and Ratchet could do little but glower at the brilliant humor sparkling in his optics as he glanced back, "Probably better to leave the lovebirds alone for a while, anyway."

From the low squawk of static that Arcee only just choked off, her processors were veering off in the same direction that Ratchet's lurched into and he only barely cut off his own frantic protests as she gave them both a curt nod before transforming and tearing off after the others. Leaving Ratchet and Optimus, alone. 

"Optimus…" Ratchet hesitated, helplessly, because what could he  _say_? Optimus was standing before him with bright optics and that same little smile, and he could still taste that kiss, feel the warmth against his lips and finally Ratchet managed to blurt out, "I need to get to work."

To his shamed relief, Optimus only nodded gravely. "Of course," he said, and Ratchet resolutely did not shiver at the low thrum of his voice, spoken so closely to his audials. Optimus was still standing so close that he could feel the warm, steady pulse of his EM field, almost a caress. "I shall see you tonight?"

It was a testament to Ratchet's scrambled processors that he'd already given a distracted nod before he could stop himself, and then there was nothing left to say, Optimus squeezing his shoulder with deliberate intent, his fingertips lingering briefly before he finally strode away and left Ratchet standing in a pool of cooling energon.

"What just happened?" Ratchet said aloud, weakly. Predictably, the still room offered no response and to be honest, he preferred that it hadn't. If anything else unexpected happened today, Ratchet suspected he would terminally glitch. 

There was nothing for it. Ratchet stooped to clean up the spilled energon and prepare it for recycling. He let his thoughts compile was he worked, considering. Had he just…agreed to a relationship to Optimus? It certainly  _seemed_  like he had and yet, Ratchet was quite sure it was traditional to actually ask the other mech before making any announcements, happy or otherwise. Sure, it'd been a while but Ratchet was fairly certain on that point. Then again, last night's memories were still a fragged-up mess; in his condition, Ratchet might have agreed to any number of things, up to and including this.

A relationship with Optimus. Their Prime. The more he considered it, the more Ratchet decided that this was possibly the worst idea he'd ever heard. He was an old, grouchy medic who worked too hard and basked in the wreck of his own tempers and Optimus was a young, vibrant Prime, dignified and strong. More of their kind would surely come to this planet eventually, following their leader, and Optimus wanted to introduce Ratchet to them as his chosen mate?

Ridiculous. They could not do this, Ratchet decided. Optimus was one of his closest friends and a silly, drunken frag was one thing. Anything more would lower him in the estimation of others and that was something Ratchet would not allow to happen.

Only, Optimus had seemed delighted at the idea of being in a relationship with Ratchet. Just how was he supposed to break things off and still retain their friendship? How was he going to get out of this? He couldn't, Ratchet decided with rising panic. Oh, Primus, he was going to have to bond with him and Optimus would probably want to adopt those wretched little human children and soon they'd be living some horrific nightmare where humans and Autobots alike would be begging Ratchet for bedtime stories and energon treats. He could almost see Miko and Bulkhead curled together, pajama-clad and fresh from a bath, Optimus smiling indulgently and--

No, no, he was still suffering from lack of recharge. He'd find a way to let Optimus down gently. Likely, he wouldn’t have to; a week or so in Ratchet's constant company and Optimus would probably be the one breaking things off. Possibly begging. 

He tried to pretend that thought didn't ache, just a little.

~~*~~ 

Two weeks later and Optimus had yet to show signs of wearying of Ratchet's company. His calm acceptance of Ratchet's blustering was not unfamiliar; his pulling Ratchet into the berth and fragging the irritation out of him was a bit of a change, though. 

Ratchet pulled out another stripped gear, rougher than he'd intended and he regretted it when Optimus made a soft sound of pain before he could stifle his vocalizer.

"Sorry," Ratchet murmured and again, he gentled his touch. There was no reason to take his frustrations out on Optimus, more's the pity. 

Ratchet had no one but himself to blame for his little problem, but how was he supposed to have known how  _randy_  Optimus was going to be? He'd certainly given no indication of it before. Now he seemed intent on making up for lost time; at the rate they were 'facing, Ratchet would have suspected Optimus was trying to break some sort of record on Ratchet's aft. In the morning, Ratchet would haul himself out of bed, his struts and tension wires aching from his hips down, stagger into the main room without even lighting his optics, guzzle a cube of energon and finally wake up enough to consider what he was doing that day. 

He still hadn't forgiven Arcee and Bumblebee for the time they'd let him attempt to drink from an empty cube for nearly five minutes before he'd realized. Their shock seemed to have worn off and now the others were simply enjoying the view at Ratchet's expense. That was all right; he'd get them back when they drank the next batch of energon he'd prepared and it turned all their waste fluids fluorescent green. A few days of them on bed rest with 'Robonical Flu' and Ratchet figured his own good humor would be restored.

Some of it, anyway. He still wasn't sure what to do about fragging Optimus.  _Literally_. After two weeks, Ratchet had finally sunk to leaving his proximity sensors on their highest level at all times. Otherwise, he would be in the middle of some project or another and suddenly, before any protests could be made, large hands would be on him, a strong body behind him, and protests were much more difficult to make when he was already halfway to overload. 

"Is everything all right?" Optimus asked, quietly, and Ratchet startled, realized he'd been lost in thought for several kliks.

"Of course," Ratchet said briskly. "I'm almost done. You're low on energon and high on maintenance issues."

"Aren’t we all?" Optimus murmured and Ratchet paused, glaring back at him.

"It's not a joke," Ratchet scolded, snapping the new gears into place with perhaps a little more force than was necessary.

"And I am not joking," Optimus hissed from between gritted denta. "My maintenance issues can wait."

"But your ankle couldn't," Ratchet snapped, replacing the armor plates. "I'm finished. Stay off it the rest of the day, do you hear me? And I expect you to take your orders!" he snarled, even as Optimus opened his mouth to protest, "If I catch you up and strolling around, I will tie you to the berth. I mean it!"

He knew that choice of words was a mistake the moment they left his vocalizer and Ratchet was already resigned to his fate when that now-familiar smirk twisted Optimus's mouth into a warm curve. "If you're going to make threats like that, I may be inclined to test your sincerity."

"How can you be such a pervert?" Ratchet groaned, mostly to himself, rhetorical question that it was.

Optimus answered him anyway, pulling him up and into his arms, and nuzzling at the delicate sensors next to Ratchet's optics. "I think you bring out the best in me."

"I thought you called that your spike," Ratchet grumbled, his fans whirring to life.

"That, too."

It was far too late to escape and not just because Ratchet had yet to figure out how. Optimus was already squirming into a better position beneath him and to Ratchet's shock, he slid his legs under Ratchet's hips, drawing his knees up until Ratchet was kneeling between his thighs.

Ratchet went very still, shuttering his optics even as Optimus pressed a soft kiss against the wildly sensitive sensors in his chevron. Thus far, they'd never reversed their positions; all Ratchet's grudging willingness had been focused around Optimus taking him. Something about actually spiking Optimus was unsettling. It would be the last blow in the demise of his resistance, finally acknowledging that he had a choice in this and wasn't just getting pulled into the gravitational well that was Optimus Prime.

He shifted back, resting his weight on both hands against Optimus chest and he could only watch helplessly as Optimus tilted his head up, expectantly, until all Ratchet could do was lean in and kiss him because he still didn't know what else to do.

"Hey, how's is—hrrk!" They jerked apart with a loud screech of metal against metal, both of them looking at the door. To see Jack standing in the entryway and any hope that the human didn't realize exactly what he was seeing dissolved at the high crimson color that flooded the boy's cheeks. 

Lovely.

"Did you need something?" Ratchet ground out. Jack shook his head and backed out, eyes wide. No doubt ready to run back to the others and report what he'd just seen.

Ratchet shook his head, already resigned to losing the last vestiges of his dignity. With a sigh, he turned back to Optimus, wondering if the mood was thoroughly dead. And blinked. He would never have believed anyone could look more horrified than that human just had but here was Optimus, putting lie to that. 

"I believe we may have damaged that poor child's mind," Optimus said faintly, his optics still pale with embarrassment. Well, now, it would seem that Optimus had finally found his shame, untucking it from wherever he'd had it stored for the past two weeks. 

"Good," Ratchet growled. "It'll teach him the value of taking a moment to knock."

It was easy, too easy, to press their mouths back together. To feel Optimus nearly flinch away, at first, resisting the coaxing pressure of Ratchet's lips for a bare klik before opening to the slick touch of his glossa, gentle at first, and then urgent, his hands moving restlessly, stroking over sensitive nodes and plucking gently at delicate wires until Optimus was shuddering beneath him, cooling fans a high whine as his panel clicked open, his hips already arching invitingly.

Ratchet pulled back, rested his head on Optimus's chest as he vented deeply, once, twice, Primus, this was going to be embarrassingly quick. He reached down to touch, the one place on Optimus he'd never even seen, not even in a medical capacity. The heat, the slickness that greeted his fingertips drew another wracking shudder from him and a loud moan from Optimus. So ready, drenched with lubrication, and Ratchet dimly wondered if Optimus had actually been getting off on watching Ratchet work. Nothing would surprise him at this point.

With as much shaky care as he could, Ratchet guided his spike into that hot, slick heat, hissing out a vent of air at the exquisite tightness that surrounded him. Slag, so  _tight_ , tighter than he would have believed and for a brief moment of wild panic, Ratchet wondered if perhaps Optimus had never done this before and now Ratchet was relieving him of the last vestiges of his virginity on the filthy floor of a pretend medbay.

There was no seal blocking his entrance though and with a relieved sigh, he sank in as far as he could, relishing Optimus's choked sob of pleasure as he arched up, thighs tightening around Ratchet's hips to draw him ever deeper.

"You feel so good," Ratchet groaned, struggling against Optimus's clinging grip to pull back, just enough to thrust strongly back in to that perfect tightness.

"So do you," Optimus choked out. He seemed to be composed of nothing but needy hands, scrabbling frantically over Ratchet's frame, his valve spasming so hard around him that Ratchet cried out, halfway to a scream at the ripple of sensation against his spike. 

There was no possible way to slow it, barely enough room in this cramped alcove for Ratchet to move with more than the shallowest thrusts, dragging his spike against the sparking nodes inside Optimus's valve, driving the charge as best he could.

Optimus was squirming beneath him,  _begging_  him, oh, Primus, beautiful, and Ratchet drove in again, harder, Optimus was so tight and hot around him, rocking up into every thrust and several boxes behind them clattered to the ground, their contents showering their feet and Ratchet did not, could not, care, lost in the slick, sweet depths of Optimus's valve.

"Oh, oh, Primus, oh slag, oh, that…oh, yes, yes," Optimus whimpered beneath him, his rich voice crackling with static and that was nearly as satisfying as the way his valve went tight, clenching around him as Optimus gave a last, choked cry, the electric wash of his overload swamping over Ratchet's EM field, his vocalizer shorting into white noise as he rocked in once, twice more, clinging to Optimus as his own overload crashed over him, his optics flaring to white. 

With a groan, Ratchet collapsed down on Optimus, venting heavily, their howling fans drowning out any other sound. Beneath him, Optimus gave a contented sigh, his lips ticklish against Ratchet's throat.

The hum of his own fans was still blaring in his audials, his power levels insistently trying to cycle him into recharge, and Ratchet was halfway to obeying them, curled up sleepily against Optimus chest when a soft murmur, barely audible, sent a wild flare of terror through his sensor net.

So softly, Optimus sighed out, "I love you."

Oh dear Primus…Ratchet couldn't move, trapped in the warm strength of Optimus's arms, his vocalizer frozen, any response he could have possibly made trapped behind the choking thickness. He cycled it once, desperately, twice, frag it, he had to say  _something_ , finally managed to squeak out a pathetic whisper of sound.

"Optimus—" Ratchet said, weakly. His only response was a deep ventilation. Blinking, Ratchet managed to lift his head and found Optimus already deeply into recharge. With a solid thunk, Ratchet dropped his head back down. Past experience had taught him that while Optimus might usually recharge lightly, he was not to be easily roused after an overload.

He'd also learned that there was no escaping from Optimus's grip while he was in recharge and so Ratchet settled in, thoughts of his own recharge as distant as the next solar system as he absently traced the seams of Optimus's armor and tried to figure out what in the name of the Allspark he was going to do.

tbc


	4. Collective Bargaining

**  
**

As old as he was, Ratchet had had his share of humiliating experiences. There was the time when he had still been studying to be a medic and had overslept, resulting in his short-lived roommate repainting his helm a brilliant shade of pink. His mad scramble to his classes meant he hadn't noticed that little fact until halfway through his day, after watching the stifled laughs and odd looks of his peers with no small amount of confusion.

Somewhere in his file archives, he still had a picture. 

A few thousand years of living and things did have a tendency to pile up. Ratchet had learned that at some point, he'd really stopped caring. At his age, things that would have a younger mech cringing in a corner, vowing to never go into the light of day again, had him shrugging and moving on. The humans had something of a saying for that outlook and it went by, 'whatever'.

It was one of the few things about humans that he actually agreed with. 

Be that as it may, waking up alone to find that Optimus had carried him to his berth was not on his 'whatever' list and he was still seething about it hours later, forcing himself to be gentle as he worked on the delicate calibrations to the ground bridge controls. Every time he thought he'd gotten it settled, sparks would fly. The same way sparks were going to fly when he saw Optimus again. He'd had just about enough of this nonsense.

Every time he thought he had a handle on things, that slagging mech threw another bucket of bolts into his lap. He wakes up with Optimus, and suddenly, they're fragging. He wakes up without Optimus, and now they're in a relationship. They start to recharge together, and Optimus drops a Pit-forsaken bombshell on him, and then has the audacity to power down before Ratchet could even say anything. And then, oh, and then, carrying him through base while he was still in recharge, where any damned mech could have seen him, or any little human for that matter, oh, yes, they were going to have a talk about this or, more likely, a shouting match, and Optimus was going to keep his hands to himself while they were doing it. 

Frankly, Ratchet was seriously considering skipping out on recharge for the next week. Every blasted time he powered down something else happened, another part thrown on the delicate balance act he and Prime had going. Ratchet was many things but he was no fragging acrobat and he was starting to get tired of pretending he was. If Ratchet hadn't been such an honest to Primus pacifist, he would have been out looking for a Decepticon to frag up, if only for the stress relief. 

Not that Optimus's method was so very terrible;  _Primus_ , that mech had stamina...

No. No, no, no. Ratchet firmly put a block on that line of thought, stifled his cooling fans before they could even attempt to online. No more of that, not until he figured out just what in the name of Primus he was going to do. 

The outer door opened with a soft swish and Ratchet jerked his head up, glaring at the entrance. Whoever it was, Optimus or not, had better be prepared to bear the brunt of his temper. To his bemusement, it was Jack, looking vastly uncomfortable as he shuffled his feet, looking at Ratchet with the bare minimum required to actually  _see_  him. 

Well, two tragically embarrassing situations in one day. That was one for the log books.

Deliberately, Ratchet set his tools aside and gave Jack the full force of his attention. If he had to suffer then he was slagging well going to make sure the human came along for the ride. 

"Hello, Jack," Ratchet said evenly when it became apparent that Jack was going to simply stare at his shoes for as long as possible. Really, he did have things to do and he'd rather get his humiliation out of the way early in the day. "You do seem intent on speaking to me today, what can I do for you?"

The little human winced, scrubbing a hand over his hair as he finally said, "Look, about earlier—"

Ratchet interrupted that little tidbit before the kid could go on. He was already so red that Ratchet was automatically monitoring his blood pressure. "I'm quite sure that there is  _nothing_  about earlier that needs to be discussed," Ratchet informed him firmly. Discussion over, he picked up his tools and went back to work.

Only Jack seemed to be just as thick as taking hints as a few Autobots Ratchet knew, because he went right on anyway, "I just wanted you to know, I'm cool with it." 

"And I was just telling myself that I wasn't certain how much longer I could go on without your approval," Ratchet said blandly, optics still on his work. "Thanks be to Primus that you came to me when you did. I'll rest well tonight." Hm, the calibration was still off. Blasted scraplets. Carefully, he made a few minor adjustments.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Jack protested. Now he had both hands in his hair, twisting in a way that Ratchet guessed was probably painful. Humans were so strange. "I just...I didn't know about you two, and I didn't want you to think that I was, you know, and--

"Jack," Ratchet sighed as he leveled a look at the little human. "Do you really want to have this conversation?" To his surprise, the human actually considered for a moment before he shook his head. 

"Not really," he admitted.

"Good. I believe between the two of us, we can pretend this never happened and move on."

"Deal," Jack said, his relief evident. Behind him, the door opened again, Miko and Raf strolling in, Bumblebee trailing behind them. Lovely, he had a whole set today, his collection of insane-makers was complete. 

Miko gave him a bright grin before chirping happily up at him, "Heard you and Optimus were clanking in medbay earlier."

The utter silence following that was broken only by Jack's horrified gasp, his color switching from a rather brilliant shade of crimson to a grayish pale that simply had to be unhealthy. 

For once, Ratchet set aside his medic nature and concern and Looked at Jack, who had the grace to look sheepish before he covered his eyes with a hand. "I may have mentioned it to Arcee," he admitted.

"Who mentioned it to Bulkhead, who mentioned it to me," Miko said cheerfully. "Didn't think you had it in you, Doc Bot."

"What makes you think I was the one who did?" Ratchet shot back coolly and there was some satisfaction in watching Jack attempt to gag on his own saliva. Ah, the petty revenges were the best.

Raf blinked at them all through the thick lenses of his glasses, large eyes confused, "What are you talking about? Clanking? Is that some kind of medical procedure?"

Behind him, Bumblebee made a frantic cut gesture across his throat, shaking his head feverishly.

Ratchet only rolled his optics, "Yes, a medical procedure. Let's go with that."

As proof that the universe had something against him, Raf only gave him a bright, interested smile. "Really? What did you have to do?" His smile faded, a bit, as he added tremulously, "It didn't hurt, did it?"

"Of course not," Ratchet sighed. What had he done in his life to deserve this? No amount of brilliant fragging was worth this…well, maybe if… _no_. No, bad Ratchet! "I don't like to hurt my patients, no matter what Bulkhead says about his articulators."

"Yeah, Ratchet," Miko said, her tone sweetly mocking as she snagged a stool and pulled it up. She hopped up on it, propping her chin on both hands as she gazed up at him raptly. "I think you should tell as all about it. It would be educational, don't you think?"

"I'm not sure your fleshy human brain could handle that sort of education," Ratchet said, glaring at her. He ignored the increasingly garbled sounds from Jack; he'd lost his chance to banish the mental images the second he'd passed on the gossip to Arcee. 

Come to think of it, where were she and Bulkhead? In about thirty seconds he was going to com them and demand they come take their wayward charges. Optimus was already convinced they'd done some kind of mental damage to Jack, he'd hardly appreciate it if Ratchet scarred the other two. No matter how much joy Ratchet would get out of it. 

Miko only rolled her eyes, "Hello, Japanese, here? I probably have comic books under my bed with worse in them than you could put out. Ooooh, I might have a few on my phone, hold on, I can show you…"

Now would be the time for a tactical retreat. "I think you can spare me," Ratchet said drolly, then with a burst of inspiration added, "I'm sure that Jack would enjoy them, though, he seemed quite interested in the subject matter. Why, we were just discussing it before you came in."

"Really, Jack? Awesome! Check this one out, this is one my friend sent me, I don't think anyone could even be that flexible—"

Ratchet didn't even bother to hide his beatific smile as he strolled away, leaving an alarmingly red and sputtering Jack to Miko's tender mercies. 

It didn't count if he wasn't the one doing the scarring, now did it.

~~*~~

  
When Ratchet first entered his quarters, already looking forward to a few hour of peace where he might gather his data processes into some semblance of sense, his first ridiculous thought was that he had been robbed. All his things were gone. He had few possessions as it was, mostly tools, a few projects that he was working on in his spare time. None of that was desperately important; losing his tools would be a frustrating inconvenience but they were all things that could be replaced with time and effort. 

What were irreplaceable were the few, tiny items he'd carried with him from Cybertron. A crystal from the long since destroyed gardens of his home city, a small figure carved of Cybertronian; little more the vulgar souvenirs but they were from home, and though Ratchet would never admit it, the thought of losing them made his spark seize painfully. 

Everything was gone.

It was a prank of some sort, he decided, and his earlier irritation was a puff of air in comparison to his pure, clean rage right now. Someone had dared touch his things and Ratchet was of a mood to make them sincerely regret it. He stormed out to the main area to find it mostly empty, only Bulkhead in sight, sneaking in an evening snack.

"Bulkhead!" he bellowed. 

The larger mech startled so badly that he had to juggle his cube to keep from dropping in, optics brightening in alarm as he whirled towards Ratchet, his optics vivid with shock, "What, what? It's just one cube, I checked, we can spare it!"

Ratchet took a deep, cooling vent of air before he said, coldly, "Where are my things?"

"Your things?" Bulkhead repeated, his optic flickering in confusion. 

"Yes, my things!" Ratchet snarled, impatiently, "My possessions, my tools. Surely you've heard of such things. Where are they? Did you have something do to with this? I swear, if you did, I am going to--"

Bulkhead didn't wait to for him to finish his threat, only shrugged. "Nah, Prime was moving it all earlier."

That...was not what Ratchet was expecting to hear, his anger fizzling like a blown circuit only to be replaced by blank confusion of his own. "What?"

"Yeah, I saw him earlier." Happy to not be in trouble, Bulkhead sipped at his pilfered cube.

"Why would he do that?" Ratchet asked, bewildered. For once, he wasn't even worried about their energon. 

Bulkhead's smirk very nearly earned him a dent in the helm. "Probably got tired of trying to fit on that little berth of yours."

Ratchet pressed his lips together before he could say anything else and add to his humiliation of the day, turning on heel and storming back towards the living quarters. Perhaps it was time for him to have that talk with Optimus. 

After all, he'd be too busy tomorrow to do it. By morning, Bulkhead would be shrieking about the color of his waste fluids and Ratchet wanted to enjoy every moment of it. 

~~*~~

Ratchet supposed it shouldn't have been a surprise to find the door to Optimus's quarters was now keyed to him since it would seem that he lived here now. Or he would for the next few minutes at least. 

Bracing himself, Ratchet stepped in. All their quarters were similar; size varied only due to their frame types and Optimus's quarters were no more luxurious than any other. It would surprise no one who knew him that Optimus would never consider accepting those simple amenities due to him by his rank and it was only through the secretive persistence of his troops that Optimus had both larger quarters and a berth sized to be comfortable for his frame, not simply adequate. 

Ratchet and Arcee had been the ones to arrange that by the expedience of just not telling Optimus. Mech couldn't protest what he didn't know about, after all. 

He hadn't seen these quarters since then and he took a moment to look around. His tools were arranged neatly on a work table in one corner, along with the fuel dispenser he'd been tinkering with on in his spare time, assuming that they were ever able to readily dispense energon. A shelf on one wall held a few sparse items, his own crystal along with others that must belong to Optimus, their colors already shifting to meld together like a proper garden would. With care, they might even begin to grow again. 

Ratchet stepped in, slowly, towards the berth room. It was no surprise to see Optimus sitting on the berth, the only place to sit, a data pad in hand. He looked up as Ratchet halted at the doorway, his smile welcoming, warming something deep in Ratchet's spark.

"Are you finished working for the day?" Optimus asked, affectionately, already setting aside his data pad and reaching out a hand. That Ratchet resolutely did not take because he slagging well knew where that ended. Instead, he stood in the doorway until Optimus lowered his hand, some of the happy warmth in his optics dimming. "Is something wrong?"

"You moved my things," Ratchet said with uncharacteristic hesitance. 

"Oh, that," Optimus said, his optics brightening again. "I know how busy you are. I didn't want to trouble you with it." He added, a little anxiously, "I was very careful, nothing was damaged."

Yes, because that was Ratchet's concern. Not that Optimus had managed to not only wrangle him into a relationship, sidestepping the task of actually asking him, and now he had them cohabitating, all their possessions snuggled together the same way Optimus was wont to do after interfacing, and every argument Ratchet had against this was shrieking in his processors, boiling over as he tried to sputter them out. 

"You can't…we…you…!" A garbled mess was all that emerged, senseless and unintelligible. 

Optimus gave him a concerned look. "Are you all right?"

For a few kliks, Ratchet stood there, wavering, before he finally slumped in defeat and stepped into the berthroom. "Yes. I'm fine. It's fine."

He didn't even protest when Optimus reached out and pulled him in, relaxing into the gentle touch of lips against his own, the heat of a warm body covering his. It was difficult waging a battle in a war that even Ratchet was willing to admit he didn't really want to win. What few ludicrously thin protests he'd had were wearing through beneath the sweet affection of Optimus's touches, stroking along delicate sensors, gliding over his armor and beneath, seeking out sensitive cables and energon lines.

Ratchet was already spreading his legs, sighing into Optimus's mouth as the larger mech settled between them. If he could admit to nothing else, he could admit he wanted this, wanted the heady, thick pressure of Optimus's spike pushing into him, a long slick inward glide coupled with a slow withdrawal. Each slow, careful thrust made him clutch at Optimus's armor, a faint sob of pleasure escaping him that was hushed, instantly, by a gentle mouth against his own. 

As old as he was, Ratchet couldn't remember any of his past partners making love to him with this tenderness, large hands touching him, arms cradling him as though he were delicate and worthy of such a touch. Nothing in the way Optimus held him indicated that Prime saw him as a grouchy old medic, equal parts sturdy and temperamental. 

With effort, Ratchet unshuttered his optics to find Optimus watching him, that same warmth, that tenderness, shining down on him, and he had to look away from it, unsure, unready, but still selfish enough to want this much.

"Ah," Ratchet cried out, his thighs tight against Optimus's hips as he arched up in overload, shaking with it, his valve clenching around the thickness of the spike within it. He felt as Optimus gasped, felt the warm wetness of Prime's overload slicken his valve and the sensation was enough to push him over again, the last quivering thrum of pleasure pulsing through his neural net.

It was only later, resting in Optimus's embrace with his cooling fans slowing, that Ratchet finally asked a question he'd been wanting an answer to for two weeks now.

"Why are you doing this?" Ratchet asked, softly.

"Hmm?" Optimus murmured. He grunted in surprise as Ratchet shoved an elbow into his abdomen, staving off his recharge.

"Why are you doing this?" Ratchet repeated, letting his irritation seep into his voice.

"Doing what?" Optimus yawned, rubbing the spot where Ratchet had elbowed him absently.

"This!" Ratchet gestured impatiently at the berth, the room, the world in general. "Why me?"

"Mm, you told me I could," Optimus mumbled, nuzzling at the cords at Ratchet's throat. 

He struggled to ignore the thrill it sent through his neural net. "I told you?" Ratchet repeated, a little fuzzily. If he'd told Optimus he was welcome to move all his possessions, he was fairly sure he'd remember that. 

"That first night," Optimus clarified. Oh, well, then, that explained it. He might have said any number of things that night. Had his luck been a little poorer, he might have been pleading with  _Bulkhead_  for more. 

"You told me that you'd take whatever I'd give you," Optimus told him, softly. "I want to give you this."

His last thought, as Optimus slid down his body, his mouth warm and slick against eager sensor nodes, was that he really needed to be more specific when he said things like that or at least give a statute of limitations. Then his processors refused to allow for higher thought cycles and all Ratchet could do was whimper, his fingers scrabbling desperately over Optimus's helm as Optimus gave him, again, far more than he'd bargained for. 

tbc


End file.
